Found Wanting (29 page)

"I don't."

Chapter 23

"This is it," Mitch said as he shone the flashlight on the front porch of the cabin.

It was dark, tiny and desolate, and Alaina didn't care. Her legs felt rubbery from the two-hour hike over slippery, rough terrain, and she was desperate to get warm. The rain had stopped a half-hour ago, but she'd been soaked when they'd started out, and Mitch's jacket had afforded little protection against cold and wet that was on the inside. The night was frigid and windy, and while the grueling hike had kept her blood circulating, it had done little to warm her.

Apparently, he was chilled, too, because he was having a hard time picking the lock.

She hunched her shoulders against the icy wind, shivering almost uncontrollably. Heat. She would have done anything for heat.

Finally, finally, the cabin door swung open. "It's been closed up all winter, so the air's probably a bit stale," he said, arcing the beam of his flashlight around a large, rustic room with a vaulted ceiling, knotted wood walls and furniture that looked well lived in.

Dust hung in the air and layered everything in sight, which wasn't much: a big, overstuffed sofa, matching easy chair and a dining room table with four slatted chairs. A short hallway led into darkness, and she figured a bedroom or two lay at the end of it.

"We'll have to do without electricity until I can get fuel for the generator," Mitch said.

Alaina didn't care as her gaze settled on the stone fireplace before the sofa. "A fire would be nice," she said.

"It sure would. Once everything outside dries out."

Her hope bottomed. "You're kidding."

"It's too wet. Sorry." Shutting the door, he started off down a short hallway, almost instantly leaving her in darkness. She caught up with him in a kitchen that held only the basics: a small refrigerator, a smaller stove with two burners, a couple of cabinets and a sink.

Opening a cupboard, Mitch peered inside. "Thank you, God," he murmured, drawing out a lantern. Liquid sloshed in its base. A drawer near the sink yielded matches and a fresh wick.

"Hold this please?" he asked, handing her the flashlight.

She did her best to train it on the lantern while he threaded the wick, but she was so cold, her hand jiggled the beam. "Sorry," she said.

Striking a match, he held it to the new wick until it flared, and a warm glow filled the tiny room. "Let there be light," he said.

His grin was so disarming that she gave him an answering smile, but it felt weak as she hugged her arms around herself, fighting the desire to let her body fold.

Mitch's amusement faded. "Your teeth are chattering."

She shrugged. "It's kind of reassuring, actually. Means I'm not dead."

He gave her a critical once-over. "You need to get out of those wet clothes."

"And into what?"

She followed him into the other room, where he held the lantern aloft to cast its glow into the far corners of the room. "Usually, linens are provided, but since we've arrived uninvited and out of season, we'll have to improvise until I can go get supplies." Spotting a Mexican blanket draped over the back of the sofa, he dragged it up, sending dust dancing into the air. "For tonight, we can share," he said.

Alaina swallowed the sudden constriction in her throat. She imagined what it would be like to be that close to him, sharing his body heat. She had to admit that in the lantern light, he looked damn good, his dark hair spikey across his forehead, his cheeks pink from the wind. He hadn't shaved in a day or two, and his beard had filled in nicely, tempering the angles of his jaw and making his eyes look like melted chocolate. She imagined what it would be like to kiss him, to feel that rough beard scraping against her cheeks ... and other places.

Her pulse began to skitter. Which was startling enough because no man had made her pulse scramble like this, but also because this man had seemed to hate her guts only yesterday and now he was being warm and kind and helpful. Plus, she hadn't paid much heed to how attractive he was, because she had considered him the enemy. Now, he seemed to be on her side, and as she assessed him, she conceded that he was immensely appealing.

Seeming oblivious to what she was thinking, he held out the blanket. "Get undressed and wrap this around you. I'm going to try to find some dry wood."

She stood for a moment after he was gone, wondering at the foreign feelings bouncing around inside her, until a shudder racked her from the inside out. Feeling like a palsy victim, she began to undress. Chills were racing through her so violently that it took her several moments just to undo her jeans. Shimmying out of the soaked denim was even more of a challenge.

By the time she wrapped the rough blanket around her bare shoulders, her muscles felt as insubstantial as water. Leaving her drenched clothes in a heap on the dusty floor, she burrowed into the corner of the sofa with her legs up under her and her hands clasping the edges of the blanket closed under her chin.

Mitch returned from outside, empty-handed and dripping anew. "Everything's too damn wet," he said. Crossing to the sofa, he peered down at her. "You're still shaking."

She buried her chin under the blanket's edge. "It's c-cold in here."

"There's no way to heat the place without dry wood." He toed off his shoes at the same time that he began to unbutton his shirt. "The sun should be up in a few hours and start drying things," he said, shrugging out of the shirt and draping it over a chair back.

Alaina sleepily took in the smooth, sculpted muscles of his chest. If she hadn't been so cold, she was sure heat would have been working its way through her system. She remembered feeling those muscles bunch and flex under her hands when she'd tried to escape the hotel room in Chicago. She remembered the restrained power that she'd sensed in him. Then, it seemed menacing and scary. Now, incredibly, she felt safe.

She let her head loll against the sofa's cushions. Safe. That was a new feeling for her. She hadn't felt safe in fifteen years. But she was safe now, with Mitch.

She stopped caring that she was so cold.

* * *

Watching her eyes slip closed, Mitch took in the paleness of her cheeks, the blue tinge to her lips. "Alaina?"

"Hmm?"

"You okay?"

"Sure."

He was standing over her in the next instant, pressing a palm against her forehead. As he feared, her skin was cold and clammy. Symptoms of hypothermia.

Quickly, he shed his wet jeans and underwear, nudged her fingers away from the edges of the blanket and slid the length of his body against hers on the sofa.

Shivering, she instinctively pressed against his warmth, and he put his arms around her, flattening his hands against her bare back. He moved his palms over her skin, creating friction that generated heat. "Alaina?"

She kept her eyes closed.

"Alaina."

His urgent tone roused her. "What?"

"Don't sleep just yet."

"So tired," she said.

"I know you are, but sleeping isn't an option, okay?"

"Why?"

"Just humor me, okay?" He groped for something to get her talking. "Tell me about the day Jonah was born."

Feeling her lips curve into a smile against his chest, he tried to force his brain away from the aching awareness that the woman he held in his arms was naked. Yes, she was still shivering, covered with goose bumps, and her feet, captured between his calves, were like ice. But her breasts were compressed against his chest, her head tucked up under his chin, her cold nose pressed to his throat. It hadn't escaped him that they seemed to fit together without the usual maneuvering for comfort. "Alaina?" he prodded. "Tell me."

She sighed softly, the moist heat of her breath caressing his throat. "I went into labor at home. My mother took me to the hospital, and I had a baby."

Mitch chuckled, his plan to keep her talking backfiring. "It can't have been that easy."

"Uh huh. Very easy. Three hours of labor and out he came."

He felt her goose bumps subsiding, until her skin was silken smooth against his. His pulse kicked up to the next level. "Why did you name him Jonah?"

"You'll laugh."

"Try me."

"I felt like a whale when I was pregnant."

His laugh broke off when she snuggled into him, her thigh coming dangerously close to venturing into intimate territory. "You feel so good," she murmured. "So warm."

He closed his eyes, trying to regulate his breathing. It had been entirely too long since he'd held a naked woman. He wondered whether his body would have reacted differently if it had not been this particular woman pressed to him. Yes, she was beautiful. He'd noticed that from the very beginning. But his growing attraction to her, while certainly physical on many levels, had much more to do with the kind of woman she was. Strong. Smart. Determined. Resilient. A fighter.

As Alaina's shivering abated, her muscles relaxed, and her body went lax against his. He let her sleep, certain the threat of hypothermia had passed. He probably could have eased away from her, but holding her felt good, and he didn't want to interrupt sleep she so desperately needed. After a while, he drifted off, too.

Chapter 24

Alaina woke slowly, content to lie with her eyes closed and her brain fuzzy. She tried to remember where she was. One thing was for sure: She was so warm and toasty she could have purred. Eventually, she also noticed that she was naked.

And that hairy legs tangled with hers.

Her eyes flew open, and she found herself face to chest with a softly snoring Mitch Kane. Her instinct was to stiffen, but she had become an expert at fighting panic and thinking clearly. She did that now, holding still, taking stock.

She was naked.

Mitch was holding her.

And it wasn't unpleasant, didn't feel threatening.

The expanse of his chest, his skin smooth over hard, well-defined muscles, was a hair's breadth from her lips. When her breath caught in admiration, she quickly raised her gaze, seeking less-perfect territory.

His nose was slightly crooked. Had she done that when she'd smashed the heel of her hand against it in the hotel room in Chicago? But, no, it didn't even look bruised.

His beard had thickened overnight, darkening the angles of his jaw, the slope of his throat. He had a nice neck, she noticed. His skin tanned and flawless except for a small pucker of flesh on his left shoulder that might have been the memory of a bullet wound. She wondered at the pinch of concern she felt as she studied it. He had been shot. Years ago, from the look of the scar. But shot nonetheless.

"Good morning."

Alaina glanced up. His dark gaze, not the least bit sleepy, was locked on her face. She saw the desire in his eyes at about the same time that she felt it against her thigh.